During World War II, economist E. F. Schumacher, then a young statistician, worked on a farm. Each day he would count the 32 head of cattle, then turn his attention elsewhere. One day an old farmer told him that if he counted the cattle, they wouldn't flourish. Sure enough, one day he counted only 31; one was dead in the bushes. Now Schumacher understood the farmer: you must watch the quality of each beast. "Look him in the eye. Study the sheen on his coat." You may not know how many cattle you have, but you might save the life of one that is sick.

This is wise counsel for composition students as well. The one who asks "How many words do you want?" invariably strings together a poor piece of writing. But the one who focuses on the assignment--a childhood fear, a person I admire--writes something worth reading.

Evaluating my everyday use of time and resources, I noticed how often I tended to count and measure--abstracting from a situation rather than living it. Take the routine of soft-boiling an egg. After the water came to a boil--a goal for which I would wait impatiently--I would slowly count to 100 while the egg cooked to the desired firmness. In this numerical mode, I would keep an eye on the clock and sometimes snap at my husband, absorbed in the newspaper.

After reflecting, I tried a new way of measuring the cooking time for eggs--one I would have scorned as a young wife and mother interested in "saving" time. Experimentation showed that the eggs are cooked to perfection after three Hail Marys [or three verses of a hymn]. I watch the water with interest until it boils, then I use the boiling time to place myself in touch with earlier generations of cooks who measured their recipes with litanies, using time to get beyond it.